don't let the darkness get you down
by ofb29
Summary: post ep for Homebodies WS friendshipangst


Don't Let The Darkness Get You Down

By Ria

Post ep for Homebodies, spoilers for various episodes previous as well.

Sara could still feel the wetness against her cheeks, a sharpness in her chest when she tried to draw breath past the large lump in her throat. She drove without knowing where she was going, which roads she was on. An awareness of the other drivers only enough not to crash. If anyone had asked her afterwards how she had got home she would have had difficulty even remembering that she drove.

The apartment was silent, only the faint rumble of the refrigerator that played in the background. Sara threw her keys towards the breakfast bar to her right, listening to them skit across the surface before falling to silence on the carpeted floor. For a moment she stood still, eyes closed, breathing erratic as once again visions she had been trying to suppress all evening played out against her eyelids. A dead body. A girl she had convinced to take part in a line up. A girl who was so scared, so frightened of a revenge attack. Who was by now probably as cold as the coroner's table she lay upon.

A shift that had started out as a simple breaking and entering had somehow brought her to this, to the silence of her apartment, to the huge weight of guilt now squarely on her shoulders. The worst kind of home invasion to a tragedy that Sara felt responsible for. After all she had been the one to persuade Suzanna Kirkwood to do the line up. She thought the girl could be strong, that she could identify her attacker. And Suzanna had, just not verbally. The look of fright, of terror on the girl's face was enough for Sara. Unfortunately, not for anyone else. If only she had said the number. Just the number.

Too late now. The revenge attack that Suzanna had been so scared of had already taken place. The call Sara had been dreading, picked up over the police radio instead as she wondered what to do with her night off.

And here she was, back in her apartment, the memory of the body, shopping scattered around, gunned down outside her house, there whatever she tried to think of. Sara walked on unsteady legs into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge, picking out a bottle of beer. The bitter taste matching the bitterness already present. No instant hit. No taking away of the picture in her mind. She threw the beer bottle across the room, sudden anger at the taste of it, watching with emotionless eyes as it smashed against the far wall, glass and beer mingling on the walls, the floor as silent tears tracked down Sara's cheeks. She turned from the mess, yanking fiercely at a cupboard door, pulling out the Jack Daniels. She looked around for a glass, and not seeing one in reach put the bottle neck to her lips and drank down a large gulp.

The burning was instant and almost soothing. Breaking through the coldness that had wrapped around her in the cold and refused to leave. She took another gulp, wanting the same effect, wanting to be branded, wanting something other than the helplessness and guilt that she felt at the moment.

The liquid hit her stomach, hit the tight noose nestled deep, hit the nausea and bile, joining it, making it worse. She turned, lucky that the sink was directly behind her as the alcohol reappeared as quickly as it had gone down, again and again until she was dry heaving, over and over, unable to stop, her throat red raw, a headache drumming at the base of her skull, sobs engulfing her once more.

She didn't hear the first soft knock at her door. The second one she didn't want to hear. The third she couldn't ignore as a voice she knew gently called out her name. Sara pushed herself upright against the side, her legs refusing to move as she looked towards the door, willing the visitor to leave her alone. She reached for the sink, turning the cold tap on full blast, hoping that if she ignored it, ignored the persistent knocking, calling of her name that the visitor would get the message and leave.

Five minutes later, he was still there, still gently urging her to open the door, not sounding at all like he was leaving. Sara's will, though, was breaking, and she pulled a teacloth off the side, wiping her face, knowing that it probably wouldn't make much difference.

She didn't want to talk, to reminisce, to be told that it wasn't her fault, to be analysed and still have to have the knowledge that the girl was dead, and that she was cause of it. She might as well have led the killer by the hand to the girl, introduced them, after making the girl do the line-up. There had to have been another way. Unfortunately another way didn't stop the girl being dead.

'Come on Sara, let me in.'

Sara looked around her, at the smashed glass on the floor, the smell of alcohol now permeating around the apartment. She didn't want to see anyone, more over, she didn't want anyone to see her like this. Feeling so out of control.

'I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here till you open this door. You may as well just let me in now.' He reasoned.

Sara glared at the door, wanting him, willing him to leave. Knowing that he was stubborn enough to mean every word he just said. He probably would wait till the next time she left the apartment. Talking gently. Being kind. The opposite to the anger, to the frustration building inside of her.

The only way to get rid of him, she decided, was to open the door, satisfy this need he seemed to have to constantly check on her, and then tell him to go away. She pulled the door open mid-plea, surprising him as he had to quickly catch his feet as his leaning post gave way.

His look was concerned as he looked her over. 'Sara…' Words seemed to fail him at that point, as warm green eyes caught hers. He reached out a hand, a single touch against her shoulder, conveying what words alone couldn't.

A tear fell unwanted down Sara's cheek. Then another and another, till she was sobbing again, not wanting to cry in front of him, but unable to stop them, unable to contain herself. Every emotion, every thought, all the anger and frustration were suddenly pouring out in those tears. He guided her back into the apartment, closing the door with his foot as her head found solace on his shoulder, and his arms held her close.

As Sara cried, Warrick looked around the apartment. It was mostly in darkness still, only a light over the kitchen highlighting the bottle of whiskey and the smashed glass of the beer bottle against the far wall.

When he had heard what had happened he knew Sara would take it hard. She had gotten too involved in the case, too emotionally attached to the victim, put too much of herself into it. And now she looked broken. As if every last emotion had suddenly left her. Spent, as the world ordered it's own form of justice, and Sara saw another victim of a system unable to get things right with every case. It didn't matter that the killer had already been picked up and charged. Wouldn't matter to her that finally some form of justice would be acknowledged before a court, that he would spend the rest of his life in jail or on death row.

Warrick knew the only thing Sara felt was the responsibility and guilt for the dead girl on the pavement. He knew words like "it wasn't your fault", would be useless at the moment. That looking at the bigger picture was a useless task when the smaller picture was probably burned against her brain. All Sara would be thinking of was the day she convinced the girl to do the line-up.

The tears stopped eventually. He felt Sara stiffen against him, tried to hold on tighter to no avail as she pulled herself away, turning from him.

'Sara…' He tried, words yet again failing him because he knew she wouldn't listen anyway.

'Just go.' The words came out as little more as a harsh whisper. Warrick ignored them.

'I can't leave you alone like this.'

'I'm fine. I'm going to…I'm going to…' For a moment Sara sounded like a lost little girl as she struggled to form words to show him that she was all right. Warrick guessed she was wondering what exactly she was meant to do now. He heard her pull in a deep breath, let it out, coming to a decision. 'I'm going to go to bed.' She announced into the room, her voice hard now, frustrated at showing her weaknesses off in front of him. No matter that he had seen her like this before. That after every case when she put too much of herself into it and not enough came out that he would be there, holding her as she cried, putting up with the silent treatment and pretend heroics afterwards when Sara put on a show for the rest of the world.

He had seen her distraught with tears, unable to form any words, had seen the change seconds later when she would clamp down on the emotions, put them away in whatever little place in her brain she used to close them down. He still came, though. However much she pushed him away afterward, however much she tried to pretend that he didn't care. Or perhaps worse that she didn't care.

Because he did care. Because the thought of her being alone, and going through this was too much. They had become good friends, and this was part of it, even if it was the part that Sara had so much trouble with. He was there for the good times, when they would go out for breakfast, or share a bowl of popcorn and a good film, or even out drinking. But he knew she wouldn't ask for help, wouldn't say how she was feeling. Wouldn't ever volunteer that maybe a case had got too much and she was feeling the effects and maybe, just maybe she needed a little help to get through the night.

So he came. He held her as she cried, sobs that pulled at him as she collapsed against him unable to hold herself upright. And then she would pull herself together. Sometimes easily, too easily, sometimes with difficulty, but every time she would ask him to leave, lie to him that she was ok, and force him from her space. Warrick would see her at work the next time, no visible effect, no outward acknowledgement of what had happened the night before.

He watched her back, as she walked to the bedroom, waiting for the words, waiting for the damning 'let yourself out.'

Surprised when all he got was a door shutting and silence. He stood still, waiting for the words, waiting for what seemed like forever in the silence of the apartment for the dismissal. Unable to believe that they weren't coming.

Only slowly realising that this was Sara's way of asking him to stay. That she couldn't actually form the words, but she also couldn't ask him to leave. So she was leaving it up to him, leaving him the option. Making it his choice to stay or go, as it was his choice every time to come and be with her.

He looked around him, over at the mess of the beer and glass. He walked over to it, and with just enough noise to let Sara know he was still there, tidied it up, threw out the glass, sprayed the carpet with the cleaner he found under the sink to try and get rid of at least some of the smell. He didn't think Sara would appreciate that smell in the morning.

He eventually sat down on the sofa, pulling off his trainers, listening hard for any signs of movement. Hoping that the silent apartment meant that she had gone to sleep. He lay back on the sofa, closing his eyes, still listening, hoping that Sara would someday get the message that he would never leave if she didn't want him to.

Sara lay, staring up at the dark ceiling, straining with all her might to hear what was going on. The sound of glass being picked up, faint sounds of scrubbing. Sara felt bad that he was cleaning up her mess, but a small part of her was glad just to be able to hear that he was still there. She relaxed back against the pillows, listening as the sofa creaked, and silence descended, her breathing, her heart rate slowing as she heard no door opening and closing, as she heard nothing.

She didn't want to be alone. She didn't want to experience the nightmares, the darkness all alone. She didn't even want to lay here alone, but although she didn't have the courage to ask him to stay, she hadn't told him to leave either. And he had stayed.

The first time he had come over she had been determined, like every night since that she wouldn't let him in. His persistence though had worn her down, had got her to open the door, even if it was just to tell him to go away. But something in his face that first night had brought the tears. Something about the look on his face, the gentleness, the concern held there, for her, for her well being. No other person had ever looked at her like that. They all brought into her show of being ok, of being able to cope with anything. And mostly she was glad for that, wanted that. And while a few people had saw small shows of the anger and the emotion, only Warrick had seen past to the whole thing. Only Warrick had turned up at her doorstep not wanting her to be alone.

Sara had always thought it ironic that in those first few months they had barely been able to work together, and yet Warrick was the one on whose shoulder she had cried, hating herself for being so weak in front of him but unable to stop. The relationship had started out on dodgy footing, and yet Warrick was now the one who knew her the best, was probably her best friend. Had been the cause of so many good times, but had also been there for her when the laughter stopped, and the harsh savageness of the world paid a calling. Had been there when she couldn't bring someone to justice, or she had to process another rape victim, or had her friend arrested for murder, or she couldn't find Catherine's ex's killer, or when she found out Hank was two timing her, or when the labs had exploded around her. After they had all gone home, the others to their separate lives, not knowing any better perhaps because Sara would always say that she was fine. It was Warrick that didn't believe her, came and found her after work when she was feeling at her most vulnerable. It was in Warrick that she had found someone she trusted enough not to hide her emotions. Well, not all the time, anyway.

As the minutes ticked on, as her body tried to relax, her thoughts seemed to grow, to whirl around with no sign of slowing down. The girl's body lying crumpled on the sidewalk. The line up when she hadn't been able to say the number. Not being able to arrest the guy even when her reaction alone had been enough to convince everyone of his guilt. Of hearing over the radio. Of seeing the girl's mom and dad, standing to one side, having already seen their little girl attacked in such a vicious way, now seeing her taken from them all together. Her mind refused to give up on the images, keeping her wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

She eventually sat back up, deciding she needed some water. Her throat was red raw, a combination of the heavy tears, and the earlier retching. Her stomach still held the remnants of the nausea now. Sara hoped the water would wash away the bile taste in the back of her throat, help settle her stomach a little.

She quietly opened her door, for a moment her breath catching as she wondered if he really were there, or if she had missed the sounds of him leaving somehow. The soft breathing of someone sound asleep met her, releasing her breath in a sigh of relief. She meant to walk to the kitchen but found herself diverted, walking over to the couch in the living area space, looking down on him. He was lying on his side, the worn blanket off the back of the sofa over him, using one of the cushions as a pillow, his feet sticking out over the end where it wasn't long enough to accommodate him. She wondered at the calmness, and peace, and wanting some of that too. Wanted to sleep to escape the never ending pictures that were haunting her. Not wanting to sleep because the nightmares would make them so much worst. Perhaps if she lay…

She stopped the thought before it finished, turned and almost bolted for the kitchen. She was not going to lay down with him. She was not going to sleep any better just by being in someone's arms. Just because someone would be there to hold her, calm her down, would not make the pictures go away. But even as she thought this, tried to reason with herself, she found herself drawn to him, drawn to the hope that he offered that if she had a nightmare he would be there to keep her safe, to calm her down. She wouldn't have to wake up alone, shivering under the blankets with cold sweat as she saw their faces. All of them. All of the victims she hadn't been able to help. He could be there to stem the flow.

She started back to her bedroom but found she was detouring past the sofa again, looking down on him, feeling an unexpected tide of gratitude that he had stayed. That he was sleeping on her lumpy hard old couch so that she didn't have to be alone. Perhaps it was only right that she should sleep on the couch too. Not have the comfort of the bed when he was giving up the night to spend it with her. Sara knew she was making up rubbish to justify the only action she wanted to do. She stopped the thoughts, stopped the justification, and just sat down on the edge of the sofa, holding her breath as she lay down next to him, on her side facing the same way, fitting in next to him, settling down as his hand moved to accommodate her, as if he knew subconsciously that she was there and he didn't mind.

For a moment Sara lay there telling herself to get back up. That this was madness, what if woke up before her and realised what she had done and didn't want it. What if he laughed at her weakness?

But for all her doubts, her body started growing weary, tiredness pulled at her, her eyelids drooping till it was an effort that she didn't possess to keep them open. She fell asleep, not realising that as she did so Warrick gently pulled the blanket over so that it covered her too, settled his arm gently over her, holding her gently as she fell into a deep sleep, joining her with an involuntarily smile to his lips.


End file.
